Read Monster Hunter Nemesis Online
Authors: Larry Correia
Tags: #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #Contemporary, #Urban
Monster Hunter Nemesis (28 page)
There.
He felt the boat long before he saw it. Franks swam in that direction. A black shape was bouncing across the surface to the east. As he got closer he could tell it was a rigid hull inflatable boat. The hull was a deep V in the water. It was coasting along now, engine idling, but it would be fast, and Franks liked fast. They would be looking toward shore, so Franks swam beneath it, coming up on the far side.
Breaking the surface, Franks listened, but realized that he still couldn’t hear very well. The explosion had rattled his head. He pulled himself up over the side. There were two Hunters on board. One of them felt the lurch as Franks’ weight rocked the boat, but Franks covered the distance and clubbed him over the head. The other was at a pintle-mounted machine gun at the bow. He turned just in time to catch a fist to the stomach. Franks hurled them both over the side.
Four hundred yards away a Blackhawk was hovering over the burning shipyard, playing its spotlight back and forth. The drone must have lost track of him at some point. STFU was joining the search. The chopper was still moving at least twenty miles an hour, but figures moved to the door and slid down the rope so quickly and with such effortless grace that they could only be Nemesis assets.
The smart thing to do would have been to fire this thing up and run for it. It would take them a minute to realize he’d stolen the boat, and by then he could be back on land and have already stolen a new vehicle and gone after Myers.
But those were Nemesis . . . And that just pissed him off.
The machine gun the Germans had brought was a Rheinmetall MG3. It was basically a modernized version of the same exact machine gun the Nazis had used during World War II, so Franks had been shot at by a few of these things. A long belt of 7.62 hung out the side. Franks looked at the machine gun, then at the helicopter, and back at the machine gun . . . The idea made him happy.
With a cyclic rate of over a thousand rounds a minute, Myers wouldn’t have to wait
that
long.
Franks got behind the machine gun. He knew from experience how tough a Blackhawk was, and even if he forced it to crash, at that altitude the passengers could survive, especially soldiers based on his own nearly invulnerable physiology, but no system was perfect, and bullets were persistent.
The machine gun roared.
His eardrums were damaged, but he heard
that.
A line of orange tracers filled the air. Franks manhandled the heavy weapon, guiding it with an artist’s touch. Franks could write his name in cursive with one of these. He started with the vulnerable tail rotor and didn’t stop until he was positive he’d seen pieces flying off of it. Then he tracked bullets along the chopper’s body, through the open door, and all through the compartment. The angle changed as the pilot tried to maneuver away, so Franks switched to pounding the engines. The chopper spun wildly and a Nemesis soldier was hurled out the open door.
The Germans had attached a few hundred-round belts together and the MG3 just kept on dragging armor-piercing death out of the ammo can and spitting it out the muzzle at twenty-seven hundred feet per second. The rain hit the machine gun and hissed into steam. Smoke was coming out of the Blackhawk’s engines, but Franks just kept on hammering them just to be a dick. It rotated as something broke, giving him another angle on the open door. Bullets ripped through the crew compartment again, piercing Nemesis soldiers. Then he must have gotten lucky and tagged the pilot, because the chopper suddenly lurched sideways. The rotor blades caught the edge of a cargo crane and exploded. The Blackhawk dropped like a stone, disappearing behind one of the warehouses.
That had been . . . satisfying.
Now back to work. Strayhorn would be taking Myers to the nearest hospital, and Franks knew exactly where that was. The Germans’ boat had a radio. He had to protect Myers until legitimate authorities were involved. He owed him that much.
There was some splashing and thrashing off the side. He had not been lying to the German Hunter earlier. It had been Hessian mercenaries who had taught him to act human, so Franks tossed a life preserver overboard for the two Hunters, slightly lessening their chances of drowning. That was his good deed for the year.
He pulled the flask of Elixir from his pocket. This would be unpleasant, but this was going to be a multiple-dose kind of night. Then Franks went to the controls and pushed on the throttle. The powerful engine roared and the Zodiac surged across the waves.
* * *
The helicopter was on its side. They’d fallen on top of a structure. Kurst could tell because of the concrete and rebar that had smashed through the sheet metal next to him. It had struck him in the arm hard enough to break the armored bone, causing a compound fracture. He marveled at the jagged white splinter sticking through his forearm before using his fingers to shove the bone back into place.
Smoke was filling the interior. The engines had caught fire. Kurst got up and assessed the situation. The human pilots were dead. A human handler was unconscious. Stricken was . . .
gone
? The albino’s laptop was wedged between two seats, broken. Kurst had lost track of Stricken during the crash. Perhaps he had been hurled out the door. That would be far more convenient than removing him in a manner which could potentially raise questions that would cause his underlings to throw the kill switch. Only half of his brethren had been in this helicopter, and several of them had already fast-roped out before they’d been hit. The other Nemesis soldiers were extracting themselves. Seven had received a laceration across the throat, severing her windpipe, so she was having some trouble. That wound could be duct taped closed enough to keep her breath from escaping for the duration of the mission. Five had been the unlucky one. When the rotor had come apart, a large piece of the shrapnel had flown through the compartment, slicing off one of his arms and the top half of his skull. There were brains everywhere. Like Franks, they had reserve brain tissue, but the impact had broken Five’s spine in multiple places so the backup was not working.
Kurst placed his hand on Five’s chest. The Fallen spirit was still clinging desperately to the mortal body, but it was slipping. The bond could not be maintained. Five did not have the will sufficient to overcome such wounds.
Go back for now. I will provide more bodies in the future. You will return, brother. Until then tell the host to prepare for war.
The demon let go, drifting away with the rising smoke.
Kurst took hold of Seven and shoved her up through the door. Her blood got in his eyes. He left the unconscious human to the fire. Then Kurst pulled himself out with his uninjured hand.
He stood on top of the helicopter, surveying his new kingdom as the flames rose up around him. The rest of his squad was waiting. Three had been thrown from the helicopter and shattered both of his legs on impact, but the rest were combat-effective.
Find his trail. We will pursue Franks to the ends of this world.
Kurst stepped off the edge and walked away as the ammunition inside the Blackhawk began to cook off.
Remarkably, Stricken was alive. He did not appear to be wounded, or even emotionally shaken. His suit was not even dirty, or even particularly wrinkly for that matter. He’d even taken an umbrella with him, and had opened it to stay out of the rain. He was watching the burning chopper, the firelight reflecting on his sunglasses. Stricken did not look like he’d just been through a terrible crash at all.
The albino has even more secrets than I expected.
“Damn it . . . This is why we can’t have nice things. You have any idea how many strings I have to pull in order to requisition good military equipment for Task Force use, First?”
“Kurst.”
“Whatever.” Stricken waved his hand dismissively. “Somebody get me a radio. I need to contact the other chopper.”
Kurst removed his radio from his armor and handed it to his superior. Stricken made contact with the other team and began giving orders.
The albino is slippery. Make note of this for when the time comes to eliminate him.
Stricken may have possessed a few dark magic tricks of an unknown nature, but demons were very thorough.
“Okay. If you’ve got a visual on our buddy, get your ass back here and pick me up now. Wait. On second thought, leave a couple of our special troops on him to make sure the deed is done. I want a body. I want this shit
confirmed
. . . . Yes. We’ll pick them up later. Leave a babysitter with them to make sure they don’t get too crazy, then come get me.” Stricken handed Kurst back his radio. “It looks like it was Myers that was wounded. They’ve got him trapped. How are we doing here?”
“One KIA. Two seriously wounded. The remainder are combat effective.” And just in case Stricken cared about the lesser beings, Kurst added, “The humans on board were KIA except for you, sir.”
“I was lucky.”
“How did you make it out?”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir.”
Regardless of what manner of man you are, you are still just a man.
As much pleasure as it would bring him to crush the disrespectful insect, Stricken had not yet outlived his usefulness to the host. “I am requesting permission to pursue Franks.”
He glanced at the fire. “It seems I’m fresh out of handlers . . .” But Stricken was mulling it over. “Can you keep a low profile?”
Kurst did not care about their
profile
, but lying would give him autonomy, time away from prying eyes, and another chance at the one being he hated almost as much as the Creator Himself. “We have been trained for discretion when working among civilian populations.”
“I’m taking a serious risk here. Bagging Franks once and for all is worth it, but if one of you gets caught in the act, keep your mouths shut. You’re not even supposed to exist yet.” Stricken was a cold, calculating thing. It was remarkable that his immortal spirit had sided with the Creator in the war before time in order to be born. Kurst suspected that Stricken would have made an excellent demon. “Permission granted. Take a few. Leave me the rest.”
“Yes, sir.” He began walking toward the others.
“One last thing,
Kurst,”
Stricken called after him. The albino pointed at his temple with one long, thin finger. “Don’t disappoint me, stay in contact, or I’ll make sure you get a really
nasty
headache. I’m talking about the kind that causes all the blood vessels in your brain to pop right before all your cells melt into a caustic sludge. You were expensive, but you are still replaceable. Don’t fuck this up. You hearing me?”
“You have been heard, sir.”
CHAPTER 12
Darmstadt, Landgraviate of Hesse-Darmstadt,
Holy Roman Empire, 1703
The creature had been secured to the stone walls with chains sufficient to anchor a large ship. A rope was tied around his neck, placed so that the harder he pulled, the tighter it became. The first time the beast had regained consciousness, he had nearly strangled himself fighting against the chains.
It was watching them silently, as was the norm. It was probably correct to refer to it as a he, as all of the parts he had used were from male cadavers, but Dippel could not help but think of his creation as an it. The creature could not communicate except through inarticulate roars and bellows, and despite Johann Konrad Dippel’s firm conviction to science, there was something about it that caused a general sense of unease.
“I am afraid I imbued the fiend with far too much physical strength. Will these measures hold should it become agitated again?”
“I assure you, Herr Dippel, escape is an impossibility,” the chief workman stated, pride apparent. It had been rather difficult to find a craftsman both capable enough to engineer a solution, and willing to remain silent to the church and local authorities that the eccentric who lived in their nearby castle had created a monster and was keeping it locked in the basement. His services had cost a fortune. “A team of oxen could not break those links.”
“Thank you, good sir. Your reputation for quality puts me at ease . . .” Not entirely, but if science and human understanding were to be furthered, risks had to be taken. “It is said that it was your forefathers who forged Emperor Maximillian’s Iron Army.”
“Perhaps . . . My family’s work has long been as reliable as our ability to keep a secret . . .” The chief workman held out one hand expectantly. Dippel handed over the sack of coins. He quickly hid away the princely sum inside his coat. “I know it isn’t my place to ask, but what do you intend to do with this beast?”
That was an excellent question. He was not quite sure yet. “That will be all.”
The chief workman bowed and took his leave of the dungeon, obviously glad to be free of the dreadful place and its unholy denizen. Dippel knew that he had a reputation for being a bit odd, but it was not his fault that the masses were so profoundly ignorant and oblivious to the mysteries of the universe.
The creature continued to watch him. Emotions were difficult to read upon its mangled face, but it seemed calm, observant, nearly studious even. Dippel went to the corner and picked up the musket his servant had left for him. “Do you see this? This is a weapon. Should you attempt to harm me, I shall use it to put a lead ball through your heart. I do not wish to destroy you, but I shall if you make such actions necessary. Do you understand?”
All he got in response was a curious tilt of the beast’s head.
“The only reason I’ve not shot you already is because then what would I have to show those know-it-alls at the university? To think they called my marvelous Elixir a fraud—oh, and how I cannot wait to see the looks upon their faces when they see you.” He pulled up a stool and sat down far out of his creation’s reach, and placed the musket across his knees. “Can you understand me at all?”
The creature blinked.
“I find myself in the curious position of attempting communication with a thing, which despite its vast presence, may only have the intellect of an infant or an insect.” Dippel sighed. “I was so focused on the creation of life that I did not think through the aftermath of my unlikely success. To you I am probably producing a series of articulate noises, with no means to unravel the mystery of their connotation. I imagine that I will have to teach you what each noise means by degree.”
It was difficult to tell, but it appeared that the creature’s mouth turned into what appeared to be a scowl of confused consternation.
“Ah. Let us begin then!” Dippel exclaimed, believing that he’d seen some spark of emotion other than rage. He pointed at his chest. “I am Johann Konrad Dippel. You are”—he pointed at the monster—“a hideous fiend, but nonetheless you are my creation and the living embodiment of my genius. You will need a name eventually. But for now let us begin your education.”
He would simply treat the newborn monster like a newborn child. Sadly, he had never been good with children. Dippel picked out a torch on the wall and gestured at it. “That is fire. Fire!” The beady, mismatched eyes had followed his gesture. “Fire. Say it with me. Fire.”
The creature moved his mouth. The sounds that came out were not correct at all.
“You call that hideous manipulation of the tongue
fire
?” Lazy pronunciations simply would not do. “Fire! Bad! It is fire, my idiot beast. I would hope that not all babies are as profoundly stupid as you. I’m afraid this education shall take forever.”
The creature glared at him, and there was a slight flexing of huge muscles, as if it were contemplating testing the new chains, but then it let out a noise that was very much like a resigned sigh.
The lessons continued.
* * *
Tom Strayhorn had blacked out when the car had been run off the road and crashed. He must have hit his head.
Something grey was in front of him. It turned out to be a deflated airbag. Blood was drizzling from a cut on his head and beating out a red pattern on the airbag. He was hanging from his seat belt. The car was tilted downward at a very steep angle. He was freezing cold. As he came to, he realized it was because his legs were submerged in cold water. Focusing past the airbag, there was nothing but black rushing water on the other side of the broken windshield. For a brief moment Strayhorn thought they were sinking, and he thrashed against his seat belt, only to realize that the water wasn’t rising. They were stuck. The car was nose down in the river.
He didn’t know how long he’d been out. He remembered that he had been driving fast along a curvy road, calling for help and giving their position over the radio, when a helicopter had appeared in front and blinded him with a spotlight. He’d tried to keep going, but they’d opened fire, hitting the engine . . . He’d swerved and then the windshield had shattered . . . It was all very fuzzy. He couldn’t even remember where he’d been going in such a hurry and why somebody had been chasing them.
The helicopter’s spotlight filled the car with white light. The rotors were getting louder as the helicopter descended.
Correction.
Was still chasing them.
There was a moan. It all came back to him in a rush.
Dad!
Dwayne Myers was still in the passenger seat. Luckily, he’d taken the time to buckle him in first or he would’ve gone out the window. “Dad? Are you okay?”
“Go, Tom,” he ordered through pink, gritted teeth. “Run.”
“Hang on. I’ll get you out of here.” He got himself unbuckled, and fell against the steering wheel. “I’ve got you.”
Dad’s skin was far too pale under the spotlight. “No. Save yourself.”
“You’re coming with me.” It was hard to work at this angle. He tried to get himself under his father so he wouldn’t just tumble through the broken windshield and into the river when the seat belt came off. Dad’s chest was slick with blood.
“I’m sorry, Tom. I never told you the whole story . . . I should have.”
Franks was a fallen angel from Hell?
That was a lot to take in, but he hadn’t really had time to think about it yet. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t have believed you anyway.” The buckle was stuck. “Damn it.” He got the knife out of his pocket, flicked it open, and began sawing through the strap.
“Should have . . . You deserved the truth, but I kept it from you all those years.”
The nylon was tougher than it looked. The wet cold was making his hands shake. Strayhorn gritted his teeth and kept sawing. “Keep talking, Dad, help’s on the way.”
Maybe.
He’d called it in, but he didn’t know if the other loyal MCB agents would get here in time. Meanwhile, a helicopter full of shadow government assholes was on top of them, and his foster father was bleeding to death. “Franks doesn’t know about me, does he?”
“No. When your mother gave you up, I took you in . . . Either that or Unicorn would have taken you, thinking you might be an asset someday . . . I couldn’t let that happen . . . We never knew what you’d inherit.”
“Sadly, not enough.” He was only human, mostly. The seat belt snapped. Strayhorn caught him as gently as possible.
“I don’t think Franks can love, but I think maybe he loved her.” Dad was delirious and mumbling.
It was dark again. The helicopter was moving away. Strayhorn froze, waiting for the strafing to begin, but it kept getting quieter. Then he could hear the rain against the car and the rush of the river. Unicorn was leaving in a hurry.
Then a voice came from just outside the car. “I see two inside. They are still alive.”
Shit.
Some of them had stayed behind. Strayhorn drew his pistol, but he couldn’t see anyone through the reeds outside the window. He craned his head over his father’s shoulder, but the car was at such a steep angle that the view out the back window was useless.
“Special Agent Dwayne Myers. Are you in there?”
“Fuck off,” Myers sputtered.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” said the unseen man. “Mr. Stricken sends his regards.”
“That wannabe dictator can lick my balls.” Myers was so weak that they probably didn’t even hear his defiance.
“Sir, a vehicle is approaching. May I have your permission to eliminate Myers before witnesses arrive?” asked the first voice.
“Granted.”
They opened up with full auto. Bullets struck the car. The passenger side window broke and showered them with safety glass. Stuffing flew out of the seat. Metal rang as holes were punched through. Myers gasped as something hit him. “Dad!” Strayhorn felt an impact in his side. “Aaah!” It was like being hit by a hammer. Desperate, he lifted his 10mm and fired it wildly out the back window. He still couldn’t see anyone, but hoped that it would force them to take cover. It worked. The shooting stopped. Strayhorn fired until slide lock, then brought the pistol back, fumbling for a reload.
His foster father was a dead weight resting on his shoulder. “Hang on, Dad, hang on.”
“You guys are supposed to have superstrength. Let’s see it in action. Mr. Stricken wanted to be certain. Drowning’s pretty damn certain. Second, flip that car over.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Crown Vic lurched. They were high centered on the bank. There was a metallic groan and the car shifted. More river water poured into the cab. Their rear end was already in the air, but now someone was beneath it, pushing. Strayhorn pointed the Glock through the back seat, trying to guess where the supersoldier had to be. He started shooting, hoping that something would get through the undercarriage for a lucky hit, but it didn’t do any good. They were suddenly vertical, and Strayhorn fell against the dash. His father landed on top of him. Black water rushed in all around them, and then they were toppling over. Desperate, Strayhorn wrapped his arms around his father and tried to shield him as the car toppled onto its roof.
He took one last desperate gasp of breath as water exploded through every opening, instantly filling the car. They were sinking, the two of them spinning around inside, blind, not even knowing which way was up.
Stay calm. Stay calm.
Seconds later, the car’s roof hit the muddy bottom, and the interior somehow became even darker.
The pain in his side was intense. Strayhorn knew he was badly hurt. He had to get out before he lost too much blood, but he wasn’t going to leave his father behind. He kept one hand on his dad, and used his other to grope through the mud. He didn’t know if it was the injury, the cold, or the fear that was making him so clumsy. He struck the center post, used that to orient himself, and then pushed his dad out the window. Lungs burning, he followed. There were lights flashing above. It wasn’t that deep.
Thank God.
Holding onto his father for dear life, scared to lose him, Strayhorn kicked for the surface.
He came out into the rain, gasping for air, only to find himself in the middle of a firefight.
There were muzzle flashes and geysers of water as bullets hit the river. At first he thought it was Unicorn trying to finish them off, but the gunfire was coming from somewhere else. A vehicle was parked at the top of the hill, flying the red and blue flashers of an unmarked police car. The doors were open. A figure was on the driver’s side, firing a rifle down at the men who’d pushed them into the river. While the first shooter laid down covering fire, someone bolted from the passenger side of the car and made it to the tree line.
There were three STFU assassins. Two of them didn’t seem too concerned they were being shot at, while the last took cover behind them. “Protect me!” shouted the one in hiding. The other two calmly raised their weapons and shot the living hell out of the car.
Strayhorn pulled Myers close and swam for shore.
Is he breathing?
He was too scared to tell. He hit some rocks and pulled himself up. The motion made the pain in his side so intense that he almost blacked out. Then the pain subsided a bit, though he still wanted to puke, but he got Myers’ limp body up onto solid ground. He crawled up next to his father, and a diluted red puddle immediately began to collect on the rocks beneath them.
The way that the two men were standing there, caught in the open, taking rounds, but seemingly not caring, meant they had to be some of those Nemesis things. He’d seen how fast these things were before, so they probably could have taken out the shooters if they’d felt like it, but they were holding their ground for some reason. The small figure cowering behind them was the one calling the shots. Strayhorn was filled with an anger so intense that he could taste it over the blood in his mouth. He’d lost his own pistol in the river, but the butt of his father’s Smith & Wesson 610 was sticking out from under his coat. A 10mm probably wouldn’t do shit to a supersoldier with a body based on Franks, but it would ruin this asshole’s day. Strayhorn pulled the revolver out of the holster. Dad had taught him how to shoot on a gun just like this.